


do not go gentle

by sightstone (symmetrophobic)



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: Gen, all of skt, also there is no pr0n, gets upsetting, im sorry, it's a lot stupider than it sounds except it, or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 01:53:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8082031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symmetrophobic/pseuds/sightstone
Summary: in which jaewan's life is like that one taylor swift song: sad, tragic- except it's not really beautiful. also, it's kind of hilarious. according to junsik, anyway, but no one cares what junsik thinks. except maybe jaewan, sometimes. but he doesn't count, damnnit- it's what supports have to do or something, anyway.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oathsworn (onelastchence)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onelastchence/gifts).



> there is a hell in hello
> 
> anyway, yes, please accept my love. i'm not quite sure what this is, but it's here, and it was in my folder, so i'm assuming that i, in some obviously drunken high stupor, wrote it, or something.
> 
> all botlanes bring me physical pain and skt's happened to be the unlucky ones befallen with a fic. 
> 
> (the uh, t1 s botlane, that is, not t1 k, t1 k pain is on a whole other level)
> 
> SO there uhm, might be some (ok a lot of (like 100000 because i don't dare to ask the few friends i have for desperate beta help)) inconsistencies and shit, because i threw myself at the esportspedia for wisdom and it threw me right back out, so. also i know nuts about how writing league combat works T_T yay thank you for being here, comments will be well and truly appreciated /heart eyes
> 
> (for ray, u dumbass, for being the pray to my gorilla, except i'm the one taking care of your wrists. write more cute league fic gdi /shakes fist)

_011._

League of Legends is a (generally) lovable game- lots of teamwork, satisfying-to-hit skillshots, and you get to specialise. However, like all other video games, it’s mostly only lovable until you die.

“I hate this game,” Jaewan says, voice clinical and slightly bored, as one would when stating a mathematical equation. He flits around the map, spectating miserably in his grey, fifty-second death timer prison. It’s 11.34pm according to the glare of the red bars on the digital clock above their heads, and they’re currently losing the fight, losing sleep, and losing in life.

Beside him, Junsik’s Ezreal dies in a pretty pathetic 3v1, and the other boy slumps into his chair, hissing three curse words all impressively merged into one.

“I hate this game,” he complains, as if he isn’t rehashing what Jaewan’s just said, as he looks at their crumbling inhibitor turrets glumly. “Why didn’t anyone take that hit for me?”

“Hey goldfish, I already did,” Jaewan retorts. “Why didn’t you stay alive?”

“Because you both suck,” Yoonseob seems to find the need to add importantly, as he starts on the first nexus turret, having punted the rest of Jaewan’s remaining teammates into joining him in the death timers.

“Ugh,” Junsik mumbles. “Someone needs to go back to America.”

“I can _hear you_ , you know.”

Junsik crumples back in his chair, prodding absently at wilting snack wrappers and the husks of empty energy drink cans, and Jaewan lets his head thud back against the headrest, closing his eyes to accept defeat with open but relatively weary arms.

It sucks being benched, but even more so on a team with players so good, the whole world blames you for team losses if you take their place for a match. Jaewan isn’t quite sure he knows what he’s doing, but neither does Junsik, so it’s alright on that front, then.

“Again?” The game hasn’t even ended, yet, but this is something they’re both used to. Junsik looks over hazily, bags heavy under his eyes.

“Do we have a choice?” he asks, as if it’s an honest question.

“No,” Jaewan gives him an honest response.

Despite him saying that, though, both of them know there _is_ a choice- they could sneak out, vanish for an hour like he knows some of the other guys here do, hide between the shelves of the convenience store two blocks out stuffing their faces with ramen and rice balls to complain about coaches and swap stories about the assholes they meet on solo queue.

But they won’t. He doesn’t really know why yet. Probably something to do with the fact that they’ll both be insanely successful in the future and have a lot to compensate for till they’re there.

Now is now, and now they’re on Najin, hazed rookies wandering in the shadows of giants, and if they don’t do it _again_ every single time that question’s asked, they might not ever be anything else.

Jaewan stays long enough to check the stats after the match is over, first his, then Junsik’s, then everyone else’s, as per the norm.

“You got more damage in this round,” he comments, trying to ignore his own rather pathetic KDA as they start up the whole dreary routin again. For probably the twenty-fifth time that day he questions his decision in becoming a support. Having no other purpose than to body block shots, feed your partner kills and die in fights you probably initiated actually does suck from time to time, contrary to popular opinion.

Junsik laughs, a short, derisive sound through his teeth.

“You died more,” he says, almost warmly. “Better not get used to Bumhyeon whopping your ass.”

“Yeah,” Jaewan mumbles. He thinks feverishly about the prospect of rising to the ranks of people like Madlife, like Mandu, and feels bravely small.

The only good thing about being at the bottom of the pecking order is that there isn’t much of a ways to go but up.

He has a fleeting vision of himself and Junsik up on an LED stage, staring into a glittering, screaming crowd, and chuckles as he hovers Thresh. One day. When he starts getting to play on Najin, maybe.

“What’s so funny?” Junsik throws it out there absently.

There’s a certain fondness, invisible to the untrained eye, in the way Jaewan replies: “Your face.”

The other boy scowls a little, unable to say anything about respect because they’re both 16, both idiots, both with little to no idea what they’re doing, and somehow, _just friends_ doesn’t cut it.

“Whatever,” he settles on that, and Jaewan snickers, having won.

_028._

(Neither of them do much winning before they’re gone.

Jaewan watches Junsik pack his bags and leave, and feels what might be the reverse of a phantom limb, walking and expecting to fall, surprised when he finds that nothing’s missing.

It carries on through the four months longer he stays, before he’s gone too.)

_043._

Jaewan doesn’t expect to ever be on the same team as Junsik again.

He’s aware that teams are transient, friendships slightly less so- he does duo queue with Junsik once every couple of days, skypes with him to complain about the CTU coaches and pretend he isn’t missing his family, so he can’t complain. The little things are what you have to be grateful for, he’s learnt.

But life seems to take a very precise delight in screwing you over in the ways you least expect. So, of course, when Junsik pops the question (or straight up demands, anyway), _come for the SKT tryouts with me,_ Jaewan can’t do much but agree.

He’s never been very good at saying no, especially to Junsik. It’s probably a carry-support thing. He doesn’t think too much about it.

The bottom line is that Jaewan does end up on the same team as Junsik again, in the same positions, starting as reserves again. The only thing that’s changed are the people.

(And the jerseys. Jaewan isn’t a big fan of the colour, but he’ll take what he can get.)

They’re older now, sharper, notably carrying the brutal weight of experience on their shoulders.

“Fatter,” Jaewan crows, poking Junsik in mid-reminiscence, in between scrims at 11 in the morning. Olympus Champions Spring 2013 is over, and so is the team’s humiliating defeat courtesy of CJ Entus Blaze- they’re all feeling a little depressed, a little stressed, and this makes Jaewan more than a little insane.

It’s amazing how Junsik can shut him up with a single look. Apparently Gyeonghwan thinks so too, because he looks over to offer his input.

“You should do that more when we’re scrimming,” he says. Jaewan doesn’t quite know what it is with these higher-tier players and their incessant need to chime in with their opinion where it’s clearly not needed. “Maybe I can turn up the volume on my game then.”

“I actually say useful things,” Jaewan says, bruised.

“No, you don’t,” Jihoon calls out lazily.

Jaewan hates everyone.

“One day,” he declares. “When we win Worlds and I’m declared the best support in the world-…”

“ _If_ we win Worlds,” Junsik mumbles.

The room goes deafeningly silent for a grand one second or so, and Jaewan struggles to pull the strings through the loops of the fabric that keeps them together, like he always does.

“ _When_ we win Worlds,” he says, with a tone of finality that surprises even himself. “They’ll see.”

Jihoon shrugs, and returns to his computer- Gyeonghwan offers a thin smile that’s strangely gratifying, and Jaehwan murmurs something to Sunho, having been in the middle of a game but clearly still listening.

“That’s a lot of confidence,” Junsik says, like he’s trying to make a joke out of it but can’t, because his voice is giving out. “Better make sure it isn’t misplaced.”

“You know, this level of mistrust upsets me,” Jaewan sighs. “I’m your support. You’re supposed to trust me with your life.”

“The reason why I don’t is the reason why I’m still alive,” the other boy says primly.

From the other end of the room, Jaehwan snorts into his can of energy drink, and even Jihoon smirks. Jaewan feels a battered sense of strange pride rise within him.

Cheerlead is what supports do, after all. The spirit of this team is what feeds their wins, and in turn, Jaewan feeds their spirits.

(Whilst trying not to feed kills. But it happens.)

Junsik nudges him into action- they’ve finally found a match, thank heavens. Jaewan accepts automatically, slumping back in his chair, shaking his arms and legs to stretch them, as they take the plunge once again.

It’s eight more hours before they cram into a tiny diner, two tables away from their sister team ( _the better team_ , Jaewan can hear netizens hiss derisively), and eat budget meals they can’t afford.

He hears Gwangjin’s beckoning, snide tone over the buzz of patrons, hears Seongung’s laughter, and on top of all that, Sanghyeok’s calm derision, like a subtle taunt thrown in. It’s ridiculous, in hindsight- they’re all on the same team, technically, same house, same dreams, but Jaewan can’t help but feel a little ridiculed, lost once more in the hulking space of expectations he hasn’t managed to fulfill.

Then Junsik shoves an elbow in his ribs and Jaewan almost dies.

“Ow,” he wheezes in pain, doubling over. The AD carry then carefully transfers a piece of chicken onto Jaewan’s plate.

“Eat,” Junsik suggests, returning to his own food. “And stop thinking so loud. The chicken’s going to die all over again.”

Gyeonghwan chuckles, and Jaewan scowls, before picking up the piece of chicken and popping it into his mouth.

Jaewan’s never been a fan of being second best. But hey, that’s what a support does. And if it’s for Junsik, Jaewan thinks critically. Maybe he’ll make an exception.

_63._

Jaewan very carefully does not react when the sister team ban is finalised.

He does not leave the tournament feeling impossibly shittier than before, knowing that both teams won’t make it anywhere this year. He also does not skip out on the last few hours of practice one night to sit, very much alone, on the roof, staring into the sky, his mother’s cold, loving derision about all his life choices imprinted on the back of his mind.

That month was also opposite month. It’s just Jaewan’s preferred first line of defense when shit hits the fan.

It’s stupid, because those few nights, all he could think about were the crazy things he’d let himself dream of. Like winning a title. Ripping apart a season with a record number of wins. Getting a support double MVP. But stupid dreams meet stupid ends, and Jaewan isn’t stupid enough himself to die with them.

It’s nights like these he remembers why he has to stay alive, though.

“You’re barely old enough to drink.”

Jaewan looks down plaintively at Junsik as he clicks on the light, standing at the doorway to their room. Junsik looks like a very put-together mess right now, like he usually does, huddled in his private cloud of depression, surrounded by a neat radius of empty beer cans in the semi-darkness.

“Feels that way,” Junsik says, barely slurring, inspecting a can as Jaewan walks over to take a seat beside him. Jaewan tugs the can out of the other boy’s hand, chuckling mirthlessly when he whines and tries to take it back.

“You hate beer.”

Junsik ignores him, instead grabbing another can and taking a careless drink from it.

“The rest are gonna be back soon,” Jaewan treads with a cautious nonchalance, the way he does only around Junsik. “You should clean up before management hears about this.”

“It should’ve been us.”

Jaewan quietens down, the way only Junsik can make him.

The AD carry lets the statement hang in the air, thick and heavy like the stench of alcohol on his breath, and corrects himself. “Should’ve been me,” he mumbles.

Jaewan isn’t stupid. He’s aware he’s not as good as Junghyun is, never was, and probably won’t ever be. But the fact is that they were the ones to stay, not Gwangjin, not the others. And it would be poison to think of how it’d gone otherwise.

He leaves Junsik stuck in that cloud of shame just long enough to walk out of the room, grab a black garbage bag from the kitchen, and walk back.

The other boy watches him with bloodshot eyes as he kneels beside him to dump the empty cans into the bag, running a paper towel over the floor to clean up any spillage, before offering a hand to heft Junsik to his feet.

“Well, it wasn’t,” Jaewan says plainly. “Guess we should make do with us, now.”

By the time Junsik gets out of the shower, Gyeonghwan and Jihoon are back, meandering around the place in a state of silence that Jaewan doesn’t have the strength or motivation to break. If they smell the alcohol over the scent of the lavender air freshener he’d had sprayed, they don’t comment, and somehow that makes him feel worse.

Junsik’s always been the emotional one, the one to stare in the distance at a thousand and one things that aren’t quite there, riding his own wavelength, as if to make sure Jaewan’s always one step behind, while the latter’s always been the safety net, the one to react on the outside whilst pretending he feels nothing deeper down.

Jaewan falls asleep staring at Junsik’s back that night, wondering how long they’ll last like this.

_098._

Again, the nice thing about hitting rock bottom is that you can only go up from there.

Things go well. Jaewan practices hard, slides into a new routine as easily as he shakes the ghosts of the old ones off his back. Their schedule doesn’t let them do much other than scrim and solo queue, but Jaewan makes the effort to keep in contact with old friends.

With Junsik though, somehow, that comes naturally. Jaewan is both a little jealous and a little in awe, but this is nothing new.

It’s an uphill climb, but it’s uphill, and Jaewan can’t ask for anything else.

They actually make it to Worlds. They actually make it past qualifiers, make it to the finals, and at that moment, staring Jongin and Bumhyeon on the top of the world in the eye as equals, as if they hadn’t been trodden underfoot by them barely over three years ago, Jaewan realizes that this is it. This is what they’ve worked so hard for.

On the van ride back to their hotel after the last night, Junsik finds his hand in the darkness, grips it tight, and Jaewan’s grin feels like it’s splitting his face as he looks over at him, eyes shining with the _we did it_ he’s been waiting to tell him all these years.

Somehow, the _we did it together_ Junsik replies with is louder than the sound of Gyeonghwan celebrating with Seongung, louder than the elated smile on Sanghyeok’s face, and Jaewan starts contributing to the general noise level in the vehicle, making it spike tremendously.

“Yah, shut up already,” Junsik manages to say this in the tone one would usually use to say an _I love you_ , and Jaewan just gets louder in the hopes of hearing it again.

Their after-party consists of all six of them cramming into one of their rooms, opening a couple bottles of expensive soju they’ve waited to all drink legally now, and laughing and crying over the season until they pass out.

Jaewan wakes up sprawled on the king sized bed with Junsik’s head pillowed on his shoulder, Sanghyeok curled up and snoring at the foot of the bed, while Jihoon appropriates the floor and about five cushions. Gyeonghwan and Seongung have vanished, probably to their rooms to sleep like decent human beings.

He lifts Junsik’s head, grimaces at the patch of drool, then carefully puts a pillow under him, throws the blanket over, and rolls off unsteadily to shower and/or throw up, whichever comes first.

It occurs to him as he’s brushing his teeth that, the same way one can only go up after hitting rock bottom, whatever that’s reached the top can only come down.

_125._

With a predictability that’s starting to get a little tiring, their spring season suffers.

Jaewan’s got the weight of a bunch of newcomers to support now, and because Sanghyeok and Junsik react to strangers like oil when it touches water, it’s up to him and Seongung to carry the team.

When it becomes clear that Hoseong prefers Seongung over him (though who wouldn’t, to be perfectly honest), Jaewan focuses his attention on Sungu, well aware of the youngest member’s nerves and tendency to react emotionally.

He sees Sungu’s gaze flit nervously around the room as he’s doing a stream in the gaming house, and absently puts a hand on his back, feeling gratified at the hesitant smile that blooms on the younger boy’s face.

For some reason, Jaewan’s eyes search for Junsik’s, finding them resolutely focused on his own computer screen.

It takes a while for Junsik to warm up to people, Jaewan knows this, because he knows the other boy like the back of his hand, and the latter is something you see often as a pro gamer.

He waits till Junsik’s done with his game before calling him over. “Help me with my stream,” he says simply, and tugs Sungu back when the younger boy tries to sneak away.

Jaewan’s quite aware of his position as some sort of social facilitator within the team, and views his job with a weary determination, depicted as he resolutely tries to keep up some form of conversation between Sungu and Junsik, whilst juggling his stream, the game, and the fact that’s 11pm at night and that he’s gone on about four to five hours of sleep every night this whole week.

It doesn’t take long before Junsik and Sungu are talking, though, albeit sometimes with one-word replies on Junsik’s part and shy, stammering responses from Sungu.

By the end of the week, somehow, Junsik and Jaewan have somehow unofficially adopted the youngest player as their child. Sungu huddles between them at the dinner table, beaming when Junsik puts chicken slices on his plate, and laughing when Jaewan complains about not getting any.

“You’re supposed to be dieting with me,” Junsik interjects, and Jaewan proceeds to sulk. Seongung makes a snide comment, Sanghyeok smirks, and Hoseong chews nonchalantly, the slight tilt of his lips the only indication that he’s hearing anything they’re saying.

Jaewan’d thought the last semblance of family he could hope for had left with Gyeonghwan and Jihoon the year before- the last ones standing from T1 S apart from himself and Junsik. But now, sitting here, Junsik’s shoulder pressed to his as Sanghyeok leans over obnoxiously to get the kimchi, Seongung complaining from the side and Sungu laughing, he thinks he could just get used to idea of a new one.

_141._

The season suffers on.

Sungu cries into his pillow sometimes, Jaewan knows, because he can hear the sniffing from where he lies in the darkness, staring at the ceiling at 5 in the morning after practice.

Jaewan’s not an idiot, he knows where to find netizen comments on their performance, even the ones he’s not twitter mentioned in. He’s read them front to back. And when he practices, they stay burned into the back of his head, a running commentary for every mistake he makes.

They go roughly along the lines of _SKT T1 Wolf_ not playing as well as he used to- there are sharp barbs questioning if he’d ever played well at all. Some very intelligently (or so they like to think, anyway) shine light on the possibility of him slipping even lower, disappearing under the ranks of young rising star supports worldwide.

He closes the tabs as Sungu or Hoseong roll over on their chairs to make sure they don’t see the rest of it, but it doesn’t change the fact that they’re there, growing in number and toxicity.

Jaewan is no stranger to anonymous hate. He’d gotten his fair share of that in Najin, and at the age of 17, realised that people were the most verbally creative when they were criticising something.

It still hurts, though.

Bang, SKT T1’s _star AD Carry_ , is one of the best players in the world now, the Faker of the bottom lane, and Wolf- Wolf’s just his support, who makes questionable plays and doesn’t initiate fights and kind of just coasts along on the coattails of his great teammates in every match.

Jaewan’s well acquainted with this feeling of inadequacy- knows that their team’s lost countless players because of it, except he’s been conditioned to wear the insecurity like a badge of pride, part of the laughter he always has as his first line of defence.

He’s pretended it doesn’t matter for three years now, and he can keep pretending.

“You okay?” he chooses to say instead, yawning, and Junsik shrugs.

“We’re losing,” he sums up rather well, and Jaewan makes a disgruntled face.

“What’s new?” the support points out.

Junsik’s watching him carefully, wide-eyed gaze comically blank the only way he can make it, and Jaewan eventually laughs, letting the sound carry the both of them.

There’s a certain logical solace in abject misery, and Jaewan would like to think he’s discovered the epitome of it, choosing to settle comfortably in it until something bigger and badder comes along to mess him up even more.

He lies awake some nights, mind buzzing with absent calculations on how long it’d take for him to move out, uproot himself from this team the way Jihoon did, the way Gwangjin had to.

It occurs to him at this point that what he fears the most isn’t harsh eradication, it’s slow, corrosive irrelevance. It’s weeks of playing alone with strange partners and watching through a television screen as SKT wins entire seasons without him.

It’s leaving the way the rest of them had left him and Junsik.

_167._

“I told you.”

Jaewan’s grinning over a pint of Hite at Sungu at the table- it’s three hours after the FNC surrender at IEM, and he’s already on his second beer. It’s easy to feel complacent over a victory like this, but seeing the smiles on Hoseong and Sungu’s faces reminds him of what they have here right now.

Sungu beams, cherubic features shining with happiness, and Junsik leans against his shoulder nonchalantly, then, tapping on his phone screen as he picks at his rice and kimchi, and Jaewan nudges him.

“You know, we actually won here- you’re supposed to be happy.”

“Who says I’m not?” Junsik shrugs. He turns back to his phone. “I made some mistakes just now, anyway.”

Three years ago, Jaewan would’ve scowled, certain that Junsik was criticising his performance too, and would’ve left the conversation there, but now is now, and now he knows that that’s just Junsik.

That’s just his AD carry, ever the perfectionist, ever quiet and quirky and slightly socially deficient.

“You played good,” Jaewan argues with practised ease, instead, knowing that he’ll pretend not to listen, when that’s what he really needs to hear. “They never stood a chance.”

Four years have taught Jaewan everything there is to know about Junsik- most importantly, that he’ll never know everything there is to know.

This fact is very prominently reinforced when Jaewan almost chokes on his Hite as Junsik talks again.

“You too.”

There is noticeably no _what was that engage in the second game, dumbass_ or _your plays made their support actually look good, loser_ , and Jaewan is suddenly very afraid.

“Okay,” Jaewan sets his beer down carefully, for fear that someone might possibly have slipped something in it. “Did you break something?”

Junsik scowls like he’s questioning Jaewan’s general sanity, something he’s grown very adept at due to numerous practice opportunities. He turns even more resolutely to his phone, avoiding Jaewan’s eyes. “I saw some comments.”

_Oh._

Somehow, the thought of Junsik seeing those burns Jaewan with even more shame than if anyone else had, and he shakes his head.

“You know I’m not-…” Jaewan clears his throat- the beer is searing his airways. “I never. I don’t care about those,” he laughs, as if it’s the silliest thing in the world, that he’d care about what people think of him. “Everyone gets them. And. They’re all right anyway, I made some shitty plays,” he says, bumbling through that thought process rather spectacularly, and ending on a slightly deflated note.

“They’re useless,” Junsik says, rather suddenly and rather sharply, and Jaewan actually fumbles with his chopsticks. “They’re everywhere- they think they know what this all means, what it feels like, but they don’t have a clue. They’re not worth listening to.”

Jaewan is, as probably mentioned before, very skilled at thinking for himself, as he is with everything else he does. It’s just unfortunate that he doesn’t get the chance to practice this skill very often.

“Yeah?” it’s therapeutic, shelving himself and his heart like this in favour of looking after someone else’s. Jaewan leans back against Junsik, voice quiet. “Thanks.”

The general cloud of pent up frustration hovering over them seems to dissipate, then, and Junsik shrugs as if nothing had ever happened, going back to his food.

It’s quiet between them, the way it usually is, till Sanghyeok cracks a classic Faker joke, leading to everyone except Sungu groaning in acute suffering.

Jaewan can keep pretending.

_184._

The rumours float in like dust motes through an open window in the morning, settling and proliferating like crystallised viruses.

Jaewan first stumbles upon them while flicking lazily through esports articles looking for teamfight analyses, and five minutes later finds him scouring the entire thread and all related posts on it.

_Mata’s coming home. And he’s looking for a team. One team, in particular._

He laughs, first, wants to lean over and tell Junsik or Hoseong about it, because he hasn’t heard a word from Sehyeong or any of their coaches about something as big as this. But then he keeps reading, keeps thinking, and eventually he needs to stop what he’s doing, stare into his screen and think everything over carefully.

 _First of all, you idiot_ , one side of his head chides him. _No, because you would’ve heard about it. Also no, because he likes it where he is now. Also no, because no one else works with Junsik better than you do._

But _would he_? Would their coach have told them if Sehyeong was really joining the team? Jaewan stares at the screen, waiting in queue, as he thinks about it. They hadn’t told them about the merger. They hadn’t told them about a lot of things.

And hadn’t Sehyeong always talked about wanting to win worlds again? Sure RNG was considered a top-tier team now, but coming back home, joining the number one team in Korea, the _best region_ in the world, getting a starter position- who wouldn’t want something like that?

Jaewan almost misses his ban, fingers fumbling on the mouse.

_And am I honestly the best for Junsik right now?_

That’s the thought that gives him some pause.

“Hey,” he says distantly, knowing Junsik will know he’s talking to him even if he doesn’t speak in his direction. “Remember Jongbum?”

Junsik doesn’t even look over, distracted by his game. “Like, Piccaboo?”

“Do we know any other Jongbum?”

“Asshole. Yeah, what about him?”

“He’s a pretty good support,” Jaewan prods bluntly. “You said-…uh, you said he was the support every AD Carry would want, uh, back during the…the finals against KT.”

Junsik actually looks over for a second this time, judgement written all over his face. “You remember that? Heck- that was ages ago-…why are you bringing this up now?”

“Yeah, so,” the support flounders a little. “So he, uhm, he engaged well?”

The judgement seems to increase with every millisecond of silence, and Junsik snorts a little. “Uh, better than you do, anyway.”

Jaewan falls silent.

They lapse in and out of conversation a lot, and this wouldn’t be the first time, so the AD Carry seems to let it go quickly.

It’s easy not to talk around Bae Junsik, easy to keep quiet and keep to yourself, but Jaewan’s always seemed to enjoy taking the hard route in life.

Now though, he doesn’t think he has the strength to. _Now_ stretches to an hour, then a night, and Jaewan goes to bed at five in the morning, quiet the way only Junsik can make him.

_193._

Everyone finds out about the rumours pretty quickly.

It becomes a running joke, _SKT T1 Mata,_ that gets thrown around the team house until they get tired of it and go back to staff duties or solo queue.

The idea loses its sting, but that doesn’t stop it from hanging over Jaewan’s head like the blade of a guillotine. He’s suddenly a lot more conscious of his scrim performances, his solo queue win rates, to the point he actually swears, out loud, when he dies in lane, and his carry fails to pick up the kill.

Hoseong glances over- Jaewan can feel the quietly curious stare on the back of his neck, and he falls silent, typing out a short, frosty message about _using your ult when it counts_ on the common chat.

He’s not typically the type to get agitated over a game- that’s more of Junsik, and Sungu exclaims in frustration from time to time, but other than that, they’re all relatively quiet. Quieter than what goes on in the ROX game house, at least, he’s sure.

Seongung scoots over on his chair, then, setting a packet of biscuits next to Jaewan, and it’s mortifyingly embarrassing, realising how obvious it must’ve been that he was tilted.

“Tough game?” the jungler asks. His presence on its own is a comfort- one Jaewan needs right now.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. He clears his throat, laughing out of obligation. “Carry missed like, five skillshots.”

“Not everyone can be Bang,” Seongung chuckles. He looks over, then, and before Jaewan can ask him what he’s doing, he’s talking to Junsik. “Junsik-ah! Better duo queue with your support- he’s getting frustrated with the average carry quality.”

Jaewan’s about to roll his eyes, knowing Junsik would judge him and/or say no, he sees enough of Wolf in his lane, thank you very much (probably both), but to his surprise, the AD carry agrees.

“Sure,” Junsik says, almost as though he’d been waiting for Seongung to ask.

It’s questionable, but Jaewan’s too mentally exhausted to doubt it. The game ends (in a loss, no surprise there), and he joins the duo queue, apologising shortly for the wait.

“Let’s use our world champions.”

Jaewan gives Junsik a measured look at that sudden request- duo queue’s a time for them to work out kinks in new combinations, not to go with what they’re already familiar with, but he goes into it with little resistance, much like everything else Junsik asks for.

They meander about locking in Alistar and Kalista once they’re in, and Jaewan goes through his runes and masteries pages aimlessly.

It’s smooth sailing once the game starts, though- another challenger makes an unamused comment about the two of them wanting some easy LP, which Junsik snickers through the chat in reply to.

With little difficulty, though, they dominate the bottom lane after that, avoiding overenthusiastic ganks by the enemy jungler.

“Dive?” Junsik’s leaning back in his chair, legs brought up so he’s sitting cross-legged, the picture of relaxation- all their lanes are pushing well, they’ve claimed the past two dragons, and even Jaewan finds himself having fun.

League of Legends is a generally unlovable game- lots of teamwork, difficult-to-land skillshots, especially when you specialise in a role that’s typically overlooked by everyone in the game. But, like all games, it’s really only unlovable until you start winning.

“Yeah, hang on,” he replies- their conversations in game go like this most of the time, _both no flash, pink ward river, mid roaming down, back behind me,_ the gaps between words and sentences filled by the years they’ve spent playing together.

It’s standard, to the point that it’s intuitive, Alistar headbutt pulverise, Kalista wears them down with spears, and then the bottom lane’s suddenly all theirs.

 _Can we have a 2 kill handicap pls T_T,_ the opponent support whines in the chat, and Jaewan laughs.

They roam up to gank top, which blows up into a full-on teamfight, ending in a very premature ace and four of them claiming another tier 2 tower.

“Baron?” Junsik says breezily, at 23 minutes into the game.

Jaewan leans back in his chair, toxic fear bleeding out of his muscles, as they roam in a messy group down to the Baron pit, stopping at random intervals to make their champions dance.

“Sure,” he grins, as Junsik starts hurling spears with reckless abandon. “Go in and I’ll cover you.”

_199._

Scrims are typically an uncomfortably tense, disturbingly familiar process.

They’re going against Samsung, now- there’s always a prominent switch from the casual banter they have in solo queue to game terminology and relative silence.

The game could go anyone’s way right now, even at 38 minutes, and Jaewan’s eyes are itching a little from the past 6 matches they’ve had.

“Mid roaming up,” Sanghyeok says, all of a sudden. “Might be a dive.”

“Elise last seen near the Gromp,” Sungu offers. “Flash still up.”

Hoseong makes a distasteful sound at the back of his throat. “It’s a dive. I might be dead before Sanghyeok gets here.”

They make split second decisions at times like these, and Jaewan weighs his options. “Junsik and I are coming up.”

It seems simplistic at moments like these- with the lane pushed up well, the Tahm Kench swallows the Jhin, uses the ultimate, and they flank easily, cutting off the escape. Hoseong’s Trundle is tanky but down to half health, and Samsung’s disengaging quickly, clearly having done this to possibly get a kill or at least draw out the teleport.

Jaewan gets the slow on the Elise, unwilling to let this go just like that, and Junsik follows up. His damage is fatal at this point in the game, and the jungler goes down before the top or mid can follow up.

“I’m almost there,” Sanghyeok says, as Sungu’s Gragas joins the fight. “Enemy bot coming up too.”

The Elise goes down just as the rest of Samsung join, and Junsik opens the curtain call, chunking the top down to half health as Hoseong limps away from the Cassieopeia.

Jaewan’s down to less than a quarter health, having already shelled out his grey health, and Junsik’s down to half- a dangerous level for a Jhin. The support spies the enemy Ashe arrow as Junsik’s firing the second last shot, sees the enemy Alistar flanking from the back, ready to headbutt the AD carry into Cassieopeia’s stun, and makes an instinctive decision.

The Tahm Kench devours the Jhin as the last shot comes out, killing the enemy top, and heads straight back for their tower, flashing to avoid the Alistar headbutt. The pulverise and the arrow still come through, though, and Jaewan finally goes down, throwing Junsik out under their tower.

Which makes _200._

Give or take a couple of times. Jaewan’s spectacularly petty, as has been established, but four years is a long time to keep track of, even for him.

He spectates from his grey death timer as the Jhin kites around the tower, nailing snipe after snipe, and Junsik’s half-yelling all of a sudden, for Sanghyeok to give him the kill. He gets the last one with the W, picking the lone survivor off cleanly.

The support rolls his eyes and smiles as the AD carry cheers at his pentakill, even as Sanghyeok nags them to go for the Baron.

They win that one, thanks to a couple of nice stuns from Sanghyeok and a great barrel toss from Sungu, and Jaewan slumps in his chair when it’s over, rubbing his eyes. He braces himself for the debrief, sinking in his chair a little bit, eyes closed.

Some dinner right now would be _great_. Then maybe he’ll go screw around in solo queue for a bit, buy the new champion skin he’s been saving up so diligently for, and snap some unglamorous pictures of Sanghyeok to put on Twitter. Sounds like a plan.

“You were watching, right?” Junsik’s flicking through the report on their damage, grinning at the statistics. “You saw that?”

“I was dead, of course I saw everything,” Jaewan yawns, thinking wistfully about barbequed pork belly and beer.

A little notification pops up at the bottom corner of his screen- it’s Bumhyeon, complaining to him about something (Jongin, probably) over Skype with a picture of Makta attached.

“You could’ve devoured earlier,” Junsik says, like he’s thinking it over. “You would’ve been able to get back to the tower before the arrow caught you.”

Jaewan scowls. “And have you blow up at me later for losing you the pentakill? No thanks.”

Junsik laughs, head thudding against Jaewan’s shoulder, stretching obnoxiously into the support’s personal space. “That’s right- better get used to dying for those, then.”

“Believe me,” Jaewan rolls his eyes, leaning back to avoid a stray arm to his face, voice warm in a way invisible to the untrained eye. “I already am.”

_201._

 

**Author's Note:**

> so yes. do comment~! a headcanon shared is twice the joy and half the pain. legit. or the other way round idk. pls don't judge me based on this. thank you and peace


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